


swimming in your ocean (i can get pretty sidetracked)

by tinsnip



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Any genital swapping is absolutely intentional, Established Relationship, Kintsugi angels, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Purposely vague genitalia, Scaly demons, Sex as play, Smut, character-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: Under him, Aziraphale makes a soft, deep sound.He lets go, leaves his lips just where they are. “You’re sweet. You taste sweet.”Apparently Aziraphale isn’t up to making words right now.***Three little chapters of happy smut. Immortal genderless beings assuming mostly-human forms would, I figure, have a bit of a different approach to sex. They've got no particular drive, and all the time in the world. Getting sidetracked is part of the fun.





	1. tornadoes and train wrecks

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes its existence to the Crash Test Dummies and their song, "Swimming In Your Ocean".
> 
> [Kintsugi angels](https://joliemariella.tumblr.com/post/185447995839/companion-piece-to-crowley-so-one-thing-i-found) and [scaly demons](https://joliemariella.tumblr.com/post/185494311734/companion-piece-to-aziraphale-i-came-up-with-a) are per the incredible [joliemariella.tumblr.com](https://joliemariella.tumblr.com).
> 
> A very useful little reference for making footnotes on AO3 can be found [here](https://tielan.dreamwidth.org/552360.html).

_when i’m swimming in your ocean_  
_floating aloft on creams and scented lotions_  
_well, i can get pretty sidetracked - i hope you’ll understand_

* * *

_1\. when i’m sampling from your bosom, sometimes i suffer from distractions, like: why does god cause things like tornadoes and train wrecks?_

 

“Mmm...”

“Oh!”

In his mouth, the prickle of the nipple, sparking from softness to a pert little tip, and the slide of little blond hairs. He holds it gently between his teeth - _very_ gently; Aziraphale does not go in for being mauled - and slides his tongue over it, quick and slick.

Under him, Aziraphale makes a soft, deep sound.

He lets go, leaves his lips just where they are. “You’re sweet. You taste sweet.”

Apparently Aziraphale isn’t up to making words right now.

“What’ve you got on you?” He dips down to snake, flickers his tongue, scents and samples: fruit, or cream, or something... something a bit indulgent. More so than the usual more-than-adequately-delicious way Aziraphale tastes: human-ish, with splashes of ozone and metal and soap.

Aziraphale lets out a long, slow breath, his ribs contracting under Crowley’s spread fingers. “It’s a sort of lotion...”

“Is it, now.” Crowley’s impressed. “Where’d you get that, then?”

Aziraphale’s heart is beating quickly. Crowley must be doing all right, for Aziraphale to have an actual heart. “That little shop half a block along.”

“The one with the suggestive window sign? 1 Right next to the news agent that always has those tornado chaser magazines?”

“That’s the one.”

“Huh.” He has a thought. “Do you know, I wonder if they share any business.”

Aziraphale’s voice is dreamy, drifting. “I’m sorry?”

He licks his thumb and fingertip, tugs at a nipple, and Aziraphale makes a small sound. “Adrenaline rushes. Chasing highs. Humans like that sort of thing.”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Aziraphale.

“Ha. D’you know, I bet that kind of person sees a tornado as a blessing.” That’s perverse enough to please him. He grins, nuzzling his nose against Aziraphale’s chest, and chuckles.

“Good, good... as long as they’re having fun...”

Aziraphale isn’t paying him any attention. That won’t do. He opens his eyes, peers at the too-closed blurred pink-and-cream-and-gold of Aziraphale’s chest. He purses his lips for a moment, then flat-out licks.

“Crowley!” Pure angelic startlement.

Crowley’s laughing to himself. He smacks his lips appreciatively. “Tasty.”

“That was _wet.”_ Aziraphale pulls at the sheet. He rubs it over himself, frowning at Crowley.

“Oh, I am sorry. Just couldn’t help myself. You taste so very delicious.”

Aziraphale’s still frowning, and he hunches himself upright in bed. The bump of his half-erection under the sheet contrasts amusingly with the irritation in his face. “It’s supposed to be very arousing.”

Crowley rolls that one around in his mouth, can’t argue with it. “It does taste good. But so do you.”

Aziraphale is mollified. “Thank you.”

“Here, let me try it again.”

He pushes Aziraphale back down, leaves one hand on his sternum. The other finds the bump of Aziraphale’s prick under the sheets, feels how it’s warming, stirring again under his hand. Aziraphale sighs happily.

Crowley nibbles and licks, taking his time. The lotion has got some kind of fruit essence in it. Crowley can’t place it. It’s probably artificial flavour: score one for his side. But it’s close enough that it tastes quite nice on Aziraphale’s skin, and he has to admit it does inspire him to use his mouth a bit differently than he usually would: whole-mouth, wide-lipped sucking, pulling Aziraphale’s nipple into his mouth along with the skin around it, opening his jaw to admit as much as he can as Aziraphale gasps under him.

He pulls back, looks at his handiwork. Aziraphale’s nipples are hard. Crowley’s left a good-sized love bite around the left one. All the rest of him is flushed pink, except where he’s shot through with gold. Even the gold looks brighter. Under his hand, Aziraphale’s pushing up, rubbing himself against Crowley, warm and hard and giving just slightly.

“Getting your money’s worth, are you?”

“Oh, yes,” sighs Aziraphale, languid.

“Shall I keep going?”

“Perhaps let’s trade off for a moment.” Aziraphale’s eyes are slightly glassy. He puts a hand over Crowley’s, presses down for a moment against his own prick and makes a small sound.

“Ready?”

“I don’t want to finish just yet.”

It’s all the same to Crowley. He nods agreeably and lets Aziraphale push him over, snug up behind him and press his erection to Crowley’s bottom. It feels good: slightly sweaty angel, breathing heavily in his ear.

“Got any more of that lotion?”

“Mmm... yes, I do... I could rub it on you?”

“You’ve been hoping I’d ask you to.”

“I rather have. Do fetch it, there’s a good man.”

This is a situation for a finger-snap. Aziraphale doesn’t even tut.

The little bottle has a picture of a peach on it. Oh, is _that_ what it’s supposed to taste like.

Aziraphale waves a hand expectantly. Crowley snaps the lid open and squeezes some of the lotion out into his palm.

“Close your eyes.”

Oh. Fun. “All right.”

He settles back against Aziraphale, letting himself relax against the bed, and pushes back against Aziraphale’s prick.

Aziraphale’s hand is strong, his movements firm. His fingers are slick. There’s almost no friction, just a smooth glide that’s really something, that pulls Crowley’s thoughts away as his body orients itself to a new, powerful pull. He pushes up against Aziraphale’s hand, reaches back with his own hand and slides his fingers over Aziraphale’s skin: warm and soft, sparks when he crosses a ley-line. Doesn’t hurt, not really, just... focuses him. Pulls him to a point. A bit of danger, nothing wrong with that, a hint of adrenaline...

“How is this?” breathes Aziraphale, and Crowley gasps.

Aziraphale’s erection hasn’t flagged. He’s pressing it between Crowley’s buttocks now; Crowley can feel him fumbling a bit with his other hand, and then there’s coolness over Crowley’s skin, and Aziraphale sighs with pleasure as he rubs himself against the parts of Crowley that slip to scales. Good fun, very good indeed: Crowley puts a hand over Aziraphale’s hand, pressing hard, tilting his hips, and Aziraphale moans, actually moans in Crowley’s ear as he pulls himself up more tightly against Crowley, and Crowley’s chasing tornadoes now, running towards a twisting whirl of tight power that’s building in his belly as Aziraphale presses his face against the nape of Crowley’s neck, a hint of teeth, the pressure, the heat—

* * *

1 More than suggestive. Flat-out blatant. For Aziraphale to catch the drift, it’d have to be. Crowley, on the other hand, can read innuendo into the flavour text on a packet of crisps.


	2. UFOs that come from other planets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everything all right down there?”
> 
> He’s as happy as a clam.

_2\. and when i kneel before your bounty, sometimes i wonder if there could be really UFOs that come from other planets._

 

“Everything all right down there?”

He’s as happy as a clam.

He’s half-kneeling between Aziraphale’s legs, cheek pillowed on Aziraphale’s belly, nose bumped up against Aziraphale’s soft prick. Aziraphale’s pubic hair is curly, tickling his nose. All he can smell is Aziraphale, recently-sated and sweaty and perfect. There is a bounty of Aziraphale. There is Aziraphale _everywhere._ He literally cannot imagine a better place to be.

“‘s all right,” he says.

Aziraphale’s hand is in his hair. “As long as you’re happy.”

He mouths Aziraphale’s prick, presses his lips against it, his teeth. Won’t bite, mustn’t bite. But it’s fun to play.

Aziraphale’s laughing; Crowley bounces gently. “I don’t think you’re going to get much of a response out of me, my dear.”

“Don’t mind. Just want to do this for a while.” He cannot fathom getting up. He only wants to be here, face shoved into Aziraphale’s groin. He’s pleasantly exhausted, tingling all over, a bit sore, and it’s lovely.

“All right,” says Aziraphale, and he feels the muscles working in Aziraphale’s belly, hears Aziraphale’s head hit the pillow. Below his cheek, a ley-line flares, and he tingles. He could fall asleep here, except he doesn’t want to. He just wants to laze, bathe in warmth, eyelids pressed shut, hair all tangled.

He lies like that for a while, thinking of nothing much, almost-but-not-quite-drowsing and then he realizes that Aziraphale’s hand, which has been absently stroking his head, isn’t there anymore.

_What’s he...?_

Oh. Really.

The bastard is reading.

Aziraphale has very carefully and quietly lifted his e-reader from the bedside table and is peering at it. He’s got his reading glasses on. Every now and then he pokes his tongue-tip out of the corner of his mouth and very deliberately slides a finger across the screen. 2

Crowley cannot, at all, find it in himself to be upset. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, after all. And he can’t get up to get anything to eat with Crowley sprawled all over him. Really, the only surprise here was that Aziraphale hadn’t had something already stashed under the pillow to flip through while Crowley’d been busy between his legs. As it is, Crowley figures he can let this one slide: Aziraphale is indulging him with a bit of a lie-in, and it’s fair that he might get bored. A bored angel only got up to trouble, anyway.

Meanwhile, he can watch. Aziraphale is frowning at the screen. Crowley peers at him slit-eyed, feeling quite stealthy. The angle is awkward, but Crowley can be very bendy when he wants to be.

“Hm!” says Aziraphale to himself, surprised at something in his book. He stops, darts a glance down at Crowley, then rolls his eyes. Crowley laughs out loud.

“Caught you.”

Aziraphale is embarrassed and a bit exasperated. “You’ve been watching me.”

“For a while now. Really, angel. They appointed _you_ guardian of the eastern gate?”

“Yes, all right, don’t rub it in,” snaps Aziraphale, but he’s smiling. He reaches over, briefly scratches Crowley’s scalp, and Crowley pushes up into it, grinning.

“What’re you reading, then?”

Aziraphale pokes at the screen, shows him the title page. It’s got a picture of a spaceship.

“Oooh. I like spaceships.”

“You like anything that makes a loud noise.”

“Yes,” agrees Crowley, happily. “You could read to me, if you liked.”

Aziraphale makes a pleased sound. This is always fun: Aziraphale is usually a bit professorial to start with, but then in a little while Crowley knows he’ll be doing the voices and reading with _enthusiasm,_ and that’s enjoyably ridiculous on several different levels.

“Very well. But I’m not starting over.”

“That’s fine. Wherever you are is fine. Entertain me, angel.”

“All right. Let’s see. So we’re back on the ship... Sawyer’s here, he’s talking to Eyas... ah. Ah, yes. All right, here we go...”

The afternoon unspools with Crowley draped over Aziraphale, eyes closed and lazy, listening to his angel’s voice thrum through his chest and belly, all wound up in a story of stars and soil and finding home.

* * *

2 Aziraphale doesn’t trust e-readers. They don’t smell of anything, and he feels they can’t be relied upon to turn the page when he wants them to. (Despite Crowley showing him, over and over, how to _flick_ with the finger, yes, like that, angel, you’ve got it, _what do you mean it isn’t working.)_ That said, they are pleasant for reading in bed when the demon next to one starts complaining about the bedside lamp and refuses to wear the perfectly good sleep mask one has purchased for them because they are obstreperous.


	3. i wonder if my seed will find purchase in your soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale seems to be doing just fine. His eyes are closed. He’s arched back over the bed, ears and lips pink, working hard. He’s squeezing around Crowley with every slow slide. Sometimes he twitches, and his lovely fat thighs shudder. He’s very soft where Crowley’s all angles. His ley-lines are flashing golden, like a flickering bit of neon: WARNING, NO DEMONS ALLOWED. Pretty and forbidden: Crowley likes those two things very much.

_3\. and when you let me taste your fingers, i take them like fruit, and as i linger i wonder if my seed will find purchase in your soil._

 

They’re moving now, him buried in Aziraphale, Aziraphale with one hand in his own mouth, the other in Crowley’s, and Crowley’s doing his level best to navigate both sucking Aziraphale’s plump fingers and fucking Aziraphale’s plump cunt. It’s rather a lot of sensory input. He has to work to stay focused.

Aziraphale seems to be doing just fine. His eyes are closed. He’s arched back over the bed, ears and lips pink, working hard. He’s squeezing around Crowley with every slow slide. Sometimes he twitches, and his lovely fat thighs shudder. He’s very soft where Crowley’s all angles. His ley-lines are flashing golden, like a flickering bit of neon: WARNING, NO DEMONS ALLOWED. Pretty and forbidden: Crowley likes those two things very much.

As he hums to himself, to Aziraphale, and as he lets Aziraphale’s fingers fill his mouth and stroke his tongue, he thinks of fruit, and of tilling soil and fresh gardens. He thinks of the weather outside, warmish, and how things are growing. He thinks of seeds uncurling in the warm dirt, reaching their roots down and finding purchase and drinking, and of the sun bathing them when they finally push up a leaf—

 _Oh_.

Everything’s gone a bit wobbly, _good_ wobbly, and he’s—

Aziraphale is pushing up against him, and suddenly he imagines himself the seed, the leaf, reaching down, and Aziraphale’s the ground _and_ the sun, interestingly, and he’s very warm, and Crowley’s very warm and he’s thinking of wheat for some reason and suddenly—

“ _Guh_ ,” he says, and then “ahhh,” and then he’s bent over Aziraphale, half-thrusting into him, warmth pulsing all through him and Aziraphale wrapped around him, arms up around his neck, hands on his shoulders, his back, crooning to him as he thrums.

“ _Well_ ,” says Aziraphale, curious and excited, as Crowley flops off him.

“Oh,” says Crowley, “ohhhh, oh oh ohhh,” and he feels incredible, warm all over and tingling right from prick to phalanges, and everything is a bit too bright and he’s grinning. “Oh, wow.” He rolls on to his back, wriggles into the bed, heels digging into the mattress. “Wow, oh, wow.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide, his smile delighted. “You had a good one!”

“I _did.”_

“Well, go on, go on,” says Aziraphale, tugging the blankets up over them.

Crowley stops for a second, parsing. “I could just do you first—”

“Later, later.” Aziraphale waves that away. “Tell me, tell me all about it.”

Crowley stretches out, tucking his head into the notch of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. He drifts a hand down over Aziraphale’s chest, tugging softly at the hairs there, down to Aziraphale’s navel (he dips a finger, slips it out again), down to the curled nest of hair around his cunt. Aziraphale covers his hand with his own.

“You’ll like this one. I imagined making you pregnant.”

“You what?”

“Sort of pregnant. All fertilized, anyway. And ripe with grain.”

“Really,” breathes Aziraphale.

“Yes!”

“That’s a bit strange!”

“I _know!”_ says Crowley, delighted.

“But you liked it?”

“I did! I really, really did. D’you know, I’m going to keep that one. Might use it again.”

Aziraphale sits up, absently patting Crowley’s head as it thumps back on to the pillow. He curls his arms around his knees, eyes wide and looking elsewhere. “That’s _fascinating.”_

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you blessed a crop, my dear?”

“Mrm... maybe sixteen-hundred-something? When you had the thing and couldn’t get away.”

“Yes, yes.” Aziraphale tilts his head, thinking. “You know, it’s never really done much for me.”

“I always liked it,” says Crowley, stretching again, pushing his toes into the sheets. “Blighting crops isn’t nearly as much fun. Pushing up weeds is a bit of all right, though.”

“Hm,” says Aziraphale, and nods to himself. “Gosh, you know, this is really very interesting.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

They grin at each other, thrilled with discovery.

“Come on. Let me do you now.”

“Oh! Oh, all right. Here, just let me lie back...”

“Yes. Leave just enough space for my head. That’s cozy. I like your thighs on my ears.”

“As long as I don’t squeeze.”

“You can squeeze a _little.”_

“The trouble _is_ only squeezing a little... oh, that’s nice...”

“Wh— mmm. Sorry. What are you going to think about?”

“Oh, I don’t know... perhaps not much of anything.”

But Crowley can hear it in his voice: the little hint of amusement.

“Oh, not me coming to God again.”

“It’s just very compelling.” Aziraphale’s thighs are very warm. He scootches himself further back into the bed, and Crowley leans in.

“Better if I were coming _for_ God.”

“That’s not a very good joke. In either sense.”

“Bit of a crap fantasy, too.”

“Do be quiet and get to work, there’s a kind fellow.”

An angelic hand directs him. He follows the plan.


End file.
